Rhiannon

... it may be as well to remark that at this place there are most distinct traditions of a battle. The author, recently, spent several days in examining the ground, and collecting these traditions.

An old man informed him that the soldiers who died in the great fight, (which lasted several days), were buried in a long trench (not included in the plan) on the slope of a hill to the eastward of the village, but that when this trench was dug over a few years since, no bones were found.

Another story related that a vault immediately beneath the farm yard at Boleit contained the bodies of the slain, but “when this shall be discovered,” added the old man,“’tis said that day will be the Judgment.” The inhabitants were in consequence rather timid, when the author proposed to dig in search of the place.

The “Pipers”, by the same tradition, represent the positions of the chieftains in front of their respective armies; and a “wise man,” reported to be living in “Buryan church-town,” has it on record, that their names were Howel and Athelstane.

In confirmation of the story of the battle, the word Boleit, pronounced Bollay, has been said to signify the “House of the slaughter,” from Bo or Bod, “a house” or “a grave,” and Ladh, “a killing.” Bo-lait, “a milk house” looks perhaps a more likely derivation; but the name Goon Rith which designates the land to the west of the circle, and where a third great stone is placed, is, undoubtedly, the “Red Downs,” a name which, as there is no appearance of that colour in the soil, looks strangely as if they had once been “bathed in blood.” [...]

From William Copeland Borlase’s ‘Naenia Cornubiae‘ (1879).

Southwest from the town is WEARYALL-HILL, an eminence so called (if we will believe the monkish writers) from St. Joseph and his companions sitting down here all weary with their journey. Here St. Joseph stuck his stick into the earth, which, although a dry hawthorn staff, thenceforth grew, and constantly budded on Christmas-day. It had two trunks or bodies, till the time of Queen Elizabeth, when a puritan exterminated one, and left the other, which was of the size of a common man, to be viewed in wonder by strangers; and the blossoms thereof were esteemed such curiosities by people of all nations, that the Bristol merchants made a traffick of them, and exported them into foreign parts. In the great rebellion, during the time of King Charles I. the remaining trunk of this tree was also cut down; but other trees from its branches are still growing in many gardens of Glastonbury, and in the different nurseries of this kingdom. It is probable that the monks of Glastonbury procured this tree from Palestine, where abundance of the same sort grow, and flower about the same time. Where this thorn grew is said to have been a nunnery dedicated to St. Peter, without the pale of Weriel-Park, belonging to the abbey.
Besides this holy thorn, there grew in the abbey-church-yard, on the north side of St. Joseph’s chapel, a miraculous walnut-tree, which never budded forth before the feast of St. Barnabas, viz. the eleventh of June; and on that very day shot forth leaves and flourished like its usual species. This tree is also gone, and in the place thereof stands a very fine walnut-tree of the common sort.
It is strange to say how much both these trees were sought after by the credulous, and though the former was a common thorn, and the latter not an uncommon walnut, Queen Anne, King James, and many of the nobility of the realm, even when the times of monkish superstition had ceased, gave large sums of money for small cuttings from the original.

From John Collinson’s 1791 History and Antiquities of Somerset.

Another version of the tales about Bomere is in Salopian Shreds and Patches, v1 (1874-5):

I am not aware of the existence of any legend about Bomere; but one or traditions are or were some years ago current respecting it. One is that it has no bottom. No end of waggon ropes have, it is said, been tied end to end with the view of ascertaining its depth, but in vain. Ergo, it has no bottom.

Another is that some two centuries ago, or less, a party of gentleman, including the squire, were fishing the pool, when an enormous pike was captured and hauled into the boat. Some discussion arose as to the girth of the fish, and a bet was made that he was bigger round than the squire, and that the sword-belt of the latter would not reach round the fish. To decide the bet, the squire unbuckled his belt, which was there and then, with some difficulty, fastened round the body of the fish. The scaly knight, for he no doubt felt himself to be one, being girt with the sword, began to feel impatience at being kept so long out of his native element, and, after divers struggles, he succeeded in eluding his captors, and regaining, at the same time, his freedom and his watery home. In later years he (so it is said) has been frequently seen basking in the shallow parts of the pool, with the sword still buckled round him, but he is too old a fish to be again caught. -- W.H.

Presenting an addition to my dubious theory of 2006. I found mention in Gloucestershire Notes and Queries v5 (1894), which is about ‘Place Rimes’, rhymes expressing local prejudice about neighbouring villages :)

Charles Hillier the ancient Corunna [Napoleonic battle of 1809] veteran who died at Uley some years ago, aged upwards of 90, added to the above [rhymes]:-- “Nimpsfield heg pegs,” which the old man explained were “things” which grew in the hedges.

And Nympsfield is literally yards from the tump. Etymology eh, you can argue it until the cows come home and it doesn’t really matter, but it is interesting I think.

The loch contains six islands, one of which – known as the Ash Island – is evidently artificial. It has been formed, as a writer in the Statistical Account says, “by driving strong piles of wood into the moss or marl, on which were placed large frames of black oak.” These were discovered in 1765, when the loch was drained for the purpose of procuring marl.

Tradition says that in early days it contained two large islands – one at the north end, which is now a peninsula, but still retaining the name of “The Isle,” while the other, near to the south end, is called “The Fir Island,” and appears to have been rendered famous in history as the spot where Edward I., on penetrating into Galloway in the year 1300, encamped, using the island as a place for shoeing his cavalry. To strengthen this supposition, we may state that near to this place many horse-shoes, of a form different to those now in use, have been found sunk deep in the mud [...]

The loch was formerly much larger than it is at present; and tradition narrates that there was a town which sunk, or was drowned, in its waters, and that there were two churches or chapels, one upon each of the large islands. The submersion of the town is in all likelihood a myth, although the truth of the story is believed by many of the old inhabitants; and we have heard that occasionally, during very dry seasons – that of 1826 being specially referred to – the roofs of houses have been discerned submerged in the loch. [...]

You can also read about the ancient Three Thorns of Carlingwark which grew near the loch. “From time immemorial they were used as a trysting-place by the lairds and yeomen throughout Galloway; and in history we find repeated mention of them made in connection with stirring events.”

From ‘Rambles in Galloway‘ by Malcolm McLachlan Harper (1876)

The mound called ‘Grimshoe’ is at TL8190289813. It gave its name to the Hundred of Grimshoe – the name coming from ‘Grim’s Howe’, or the burial mound of Grim (Woden / Odin). It’s probably a spoil mound from the quarrying, or maybe created especially from the spoil for the purposes of a special place for impressive Hundred Meetings. But don’t let its mundane origin detract from its mythological splendour.

Up here is a little cairn cemetery with two round cairns, two tor cairns and two ring cairns. They surround a large rock outcrop called Branscombe’s Loaf. Tor cairns are only found on the higher moors of Devon and Cornwall and only about 50 are known. They date from the early-mid Bronze Age.

On the slope between Sourton Tor and Bronescombe’s Loaf lies a large slab of granite through which a dyke of elvan has been thrust. In this elvan have been cut the moulds for two bronze axe-heads.*

Walter Bronescombe was Bishop of Exeter between 1258 and 1280, and he lies buried in the Cathedral under a fine canopied tomb. The effigy is of his own date, and gives apparently a true portrait of a worthy prelate.

One day he was visiting this portion of his diocese, and had ventured to ride over the moor from Widdecombe. He and his retinue had laboured through bogs, and almost despared of reaching the confines of the wilderness. Moreover, on taking Amicombe Hill [Kitty Tor] they knew not which way to take, for the bogs there are nasty; and his attendants dispersed to seek a way. The Bishop was overcome with fatigue, and was starving. He turned to his chaplain and said, “Our Master in the wilderness was offered by Satan bread made of stones. If he were now to make the same offer to me, I doubt if I should have the Christian fortitude to refuse.”

“Ah!” sighed the chaplain, “and a hunch of cheese as well!”
“Bread and cheese I could not hold out against,” said the bishop.
Hardly had he spoken before a moorman rose up from a peat dyke and drew night; he had a wallet on his back.
“Master!” called the chaplain, “dost thou chance to have a snack of meat with thee?”
“Ay, verily,” replied the moorman, and approached, hobbling, for he was apparently lame. “I have with me bread and cheese, naught else.”
“Give it us, my son,” said the Bishop; “I will well repay thee.”
“Nay,” replied the stranger, “I be no son of thine. And I ask no reward save that thou descend from thy steed, doff thy cap, and salute me with the title of master.”
“I will do that,” said the Bishop, and alighted.
Then the strange man produced a loaf and a large piece of cheese.

Now, the Bishop was about to take off his cap and address the moorman in a tone of entreaty and by the title of master, when the chaplain perceived that the man had one foot like that of a goat. He instantly cried out to God, and signified what he saw to the prelate, who, in holy horror, made the sign of the cross, and lo! the moorman vanished, and the bread and cheese remained transformed to stone.

Do you doubt it? Go and see. Look on the Ordnance Survey map and you will find Bread and Cheese marked there. Only Bronescombe’s name has been transformed to Brandescombe.
But the Bishop, to make atonement, and to ease his conscience for having so nearly yielded to temptation, spent great sums on the rebuilding of his cathedral.

I don’t know if this is traditional or made up by the good old Reverend Baring-Gould, but I don’t mind either way. From his ‘A Book of Dartmoor‘ (1900).

*This sounds most intriguing, but I’ve not found out anything more. Only a slog across the moors will tell.

The ‘fortifications’ surely refer to this site? Who knows. The author for all his long-windedness seems to know the lay of the land.

The Ghost of the Black-Dog.

A man having to walk from Princetown to Plymouth took the road which crosses Roborough Down. He started at four o’clock from the Duchy Hotel, and as he walked at a good swinging pace, hoped to cover the sixteen miles in about three hours and a half. It was a lovely evening in December, cold and frosty, and the stars and a bright moon giving enough light to enable him to see the roadway distinctly zigzagged across the moor. Not a friendly pony or a quiet Neddy crossed his path as he strode merrily onward whistling as he went.

After a while the desolation of the scene seemed to strike him, and he felt terribly alone among the boulders and huge masses of gorse which hemmed him in. On, on he pressed, till he came to a village where a wayside inn tempted him to rest awhile and have just one nip of something “short” to keep his spirits up.

Passing the reservoir beds, he came out on an open piece of road, with a pine copse on his right. Just then he fancied he heard the pit-pat of feet gaining upon him. Thinking it was a pedestrian bound for Plymouth, he turned to accost his fellow traveller, but there was no one visible, nor were any footfalls then audible. Immediately on resuming his walk, pit-pat, pit-pat, fell the echoes of feet again. And suddenly there appeared close to his right side an enormous dog, neither mastiff or bloodhound, but what seemed to him to be a Newfoundland of immense size. Dogs were always fond of him, and he of them, so he took no heed of this (to him) lovely canine specimen.

Presently he spoke to him. “Well, doggie, what a beauty you are: how far are you going?” at the same time lifting his hand to pat him. Great was the man’s astonishment to find no resisting substance, though the form was certainly there, for his hand passed right through the seeming body of the animal. “Hulloh! what’s this?” said the bewildered traveller. As he spoke the great glassy eyes gazed at him; then the beast yawned, and from his throat issued a stream of sulphurous breath. Well, thought the man, I am in for it now! I’ll trudge on as fast as legs can carry me, without letting this queer customer think I am actually afraid of him.

With heart beating madly and feet actually flying over the stony way, he hurried down the hill, the dog never for a moment leaving him, or slackening his speed. They soon reached a crossway, not far from the fortifications. When, suddenly the man was startled by a loud report, followed by a blinding flash, as of lightning, which struck him senseless to the ground. At daybreak, he was found by the driver of the mail-cart, lying in the ditch at the roadside in an unconscious state.

Tradition says, that a foul murder was many years ago committed at this spot, and the victim’s dog is doomed to traverse this road and kill every man he encounters, until the perpetrator of the deed has perished by his instrumentality.

There are similar legends of the doings of the Black Dog throughout the county, and many wayside public houses have “The Black Dog” for a sign.

From Nummits and Crummits by Sarah Hewett (1900). It’s rather dramatised up, I’m sure most Black Dogs aren’t so mean. It also reminds me of something I’m rather interested in at the moment, the 21st century tale of the Big Cat (which is also often black).

Between Dinas Emrys and Llyn Dinas you can still see a building called ‘Beudy Bedd-Owen’, referring to the grave of Owen. From a document of Edward Llwyd’s, Celtic Folklore, Welsh and Manx (1901) says..

that is to say, ‘Owen son of Maxen.’ Owen had been fighting with a giant – whose name local tradition takes for granted – with balls of steel; and there are depressions (panylau) still to be seen in the ground where each of the combatants took his stand. Some, however, will have it that it was with bows and arrows they fought, and that the hollows are the places they dug to defend themselves. The result was that both died at the close of the conflict; and Owen, being asked where he wished to be buried, ordered an arrow to be shot into the air and his grave to be made where it fell.

It may be a bit cheeky to add the folklore for your well? But it’s not far away and you’d imagine the inhabitants of the fort probably popped here for water? Once they’d used the amount up in that bullaun-style dip. I seem to remember the well featured in the BBC series ‘Pagans and Pilgrims.‘

In the south-east corner of the churchyard is St. Celynin’s well, at one time of more than local fame. [...] The well was resorted to by mothers with weak and sickly children, as a last resource, to strengthen their limbs, and restore them to health. The children were immersed either early in the morning, or in the evening, and were afterwards wrapped in a blanket and allowed to sleep. There was always a spare bed for the sufferers, and a hearty welcome to the anxious mothers, at a farm a little to the south, called Cae Ial. The cures effected by the virtue of the waters are said to have been many. The efficacy of the well is not altogether disbelieved by the neighbouring inhabitants at the present time. With the water of this well, children were always baptized.

On the left hand side of the road that passes the churchyard, and about two hundred yards from it, is a small spring called Ffynnon Gwynwy. Any one troubled with warts, upon making an offering of a crooked pin to the well, lost them. Fifty years ago the bottom of this little well was covered with pins; everybody was careful not to touch them, fearing that the warts deposited with the pins would grow upon their own hands if they did so. But the belief in the efficacy of the water has departed, and the well presents the appearance of a hole filled with clear water, overgrown with weeds.

‘Llangelynin Old Church, Caernarvonshire’ by E Owen, in Archaeologia Cambrensis v13, January 1867.

Understandably, Canmore won’t pin the first of these stories to this particular cist. But it might well be the culprit? The second, ‘Cairnywanie’, with its similarly noble skeleton, was at NX512584, but has all but disappeared.

About the year 1809, Mr McLean of Mark, while improving a field in the moor of Glenquicken, in Kirkmabreck parish, found it necessary to remove a very large cairn, which is said by tradition to have been the tomb of a king of Scotland, which is not in the genuine series, Aldus McGaldus, McGillus or McGill. When the cairn had been removed, the workmen came to a stone coffin of very rude workmanship; and on removing the lid, they found the skeleton of a man, of uncommon size; the bones were in such a state of decomposition that the ribs and vertebrae crumbled into dust, on attempting to lift them. The remaining bones being more compact, were taken out; when it was discovered that one of the arms had been almost separated from the shoulder by the stroke of a stone axe, and that a fragment of the axe still remained in the bone. The axe had been of green stone, a species of stone never found in this part of Scotland. There was also found with this skeleton a ball of flint, about three inches diameter, which was perfectly round, and highly polished, and the head of an arrow, that was also of flint; but not a particle of any metallic substance was found.
Mr Denniston of Creetown’s Letter to Mr. Train, of Newton Stewart, dated the 22d of October, 1819.

About the year 1778, in removing a quantity of stones for building dikes from a large tumulus in Glenquicken Moor, there was found a stone coffin, containing a human skeleton, which was greatly above the ordinary size. There was also found in this sepulchral monument an urn containing ashes, and an earthen pitcher. The urn seems to evince the antiquity of this tumulus, when the British practised funeral cremation. This tumulus is called Cairnywanie. Thus we have an account of two skeletons of very large size, found in Glenquicken Moor at different times. These facts seem to confirm the tradition that a battle had taken place here at some very remote period.

From the Statistical Account iv, p332 (browse under ‘Kirkmabreck’).

Well TSC, there is some I have found for you :)

Mr John Griffith wrote as follows:
“It is well known at Moylgrove that for ages the cauldron has been the show-place of the parish. Visitors are even now attracted to the place; but, in times past, I have learnt from the natives that, besides the cauldron itself, there were at least two still more powerful attractions on the spot – a well and a witch. Then, be it remembered, that right opposite the creek is a ‘castle,’ which Fenton compares with Tintagel. The only cottage on the headland where the ‘castle’ is situate is called Pen y Castell. Athwart the slope of Pen y Castell is a finely-constructed bridle-path, which leads to the castle. It is from near this bridle-path that the best view of the cauldron can be obtained.

“... The Rev. Llewelyn Griffiths, Dinas [...] knew the cauldron well. When I mentioned Ffynnon Halen, he corrected me and said its name is Fynnon Alem. When he was a lad at Moylgrove, he learned of it, as a thing which had happened just then – that somebody saw a mermaid at Pwll y Wrach, with long hair, waving an arm out of the water.

“... The Rev. J.T. Evans and I made another ‘find’. We found a regularly-constructed path leading into one side of the cauldron. It is narrow, yet wide enough for a person to walk with both feet down together, if you can fancy a man walking so. Nervous people had better avoid it though. The path leads into a cave of considerable size and length. Somebody once must have made much use of the cave. The making of a path on the sheer side of the cauldron was ticklish work.

“Now, Mr Davies [the village blacksmith] told me that the people there still talk of a witch inhabiting the cave, and of people who used to visit Pwll y Wrach to consult the Wrach. I judged, from what i heard, that such a witch might have been haunting the place, say, within the last century. At any rate, Mr Davies and his neighbours do not draw on our [ie Welsh] mythology for an explanation of Pwll y Wrach. They regard the name as associated with a common witch.”

This is from an article in Archaeologia Cambrensis from 1860, in which A.W. Wade-Evans is determined to connect mythological places with real places in Wales. He’s a man after my own heart of course. Although one has to know when to give up, and maybe in this case he stretches a bit far. Mythological places don’t have to exactly coincide with real places, isn’t that their charm? He wants to suggest that a stolen cauldron (a proper iron article) mentioned in the Llyfr Coch o Hergest “is”, in a mythological sort of way, represented by the Pwll y Wrach, as the book says “there is the measure of the cauldron”. Or something. It’s a bit tenuous.

I think his only connection to the word cauldron is his rather anecdotal I very distinctly remember a lady living close by, and who had lived there from childhood, telling me she had always known [Pwll y Wrach] in English as “The Witch’s Cauldron.” The inhabitants say it is a marvel to see in stormy weather, for in such a time it seethes like a boiling pot.

But regardless of the likelihood of his arguments, this sounds like a pretty marvellous natural place, connected with witches and holy wells and mermaids and castles from the mists of time, and what more do you want really.

This is really such a superb part of the country and reading about it makes me want to go back. The cairn might not be the one in the story – I can’t find one now known by the name ‘Carn Glas’ (although it’s common enough). But it could be, it’s right by the road and big enough at 50ft diameter and 6ft high to be noticeable. It’s got a c5ft long slab, a hefty 8” thick, covering a cist.

The Labourer’s Dream.

A labourer (navvy) was working on the road between Rhi-conich and Durness, in Sutherlandshire, about fifty years ago, and dreamed on a Saturday night that if he rose early on Monday morning, so as to be at Carn Glas at sunrise, he would see a crow sitting on a stone. Under that stone he would find the gold which was hid after the murder of a Norwegian prince.

The labourer was in so great a hurry to get the gold that he could not wait till Monday, but set off on Sunday evening, as he had a long way to go. When he reached Carn Glas, there was a crow sitting on a stone, but he did not know which was the right one, for there was a crow on every stone!

People who could interpret dreams said that this happened because he broke the Sabbath; he ought to have waited till the Lord’s Day had gone past, and he would have been certain to get the gold.

From p373 in volume 9 of ‘Folk-lore’ (1898).